


Son of Asteroth

by Momeratz_Autgraeb



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Mpreg, Multi, Polyamory, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 13:05:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17386988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Momeratz_Autgraeb/pseuds/Momeratz_Autgraeb
Summary: Fleamont and Euphemia Potter would do anything to have a child. ANYTHING. Including making a deal with a devil. In which Harry is raised by the demon Asteroth into a BAMF! sex toy. Watch with wide eyes and open pants as he wreaks havoc on his yearmates and seduces whoever catches his fancy. I have no idea from where in the twisted, labyrinthine confines of my mind this came to me, but come to me it did. Let's see where it takes us.





	Son of Asteroth

“Please! Not Harry! Have mercy… have mercy….” begged the desperate mother.

“Stand aside, girl!” demanded the hooded murderer of her husband. He would not ask again.

She continued regardless. “Not Harry! Not Harry! Please - I’ll do anything!”

Patience at an end, the Dark Lord Voldemort flicked his wand at the woman. “Avada Kedavra!”

There was a streak of green light, a sound like the whooshing of wings, and Lily Potter fell dead to the floor.

The most feared wizard in the UK turned to the toddler standing in the crib behind her fallen corpse. Green eyes looked at him with a a kind of expectant air. Voldemort sneered. This was the child of prophecy, the one destined to defeat him? Well, not if he had anything to say about it. He’d worked too hard for too long to be stopped by a mere child.

Gathering hatred in his heart and magic in his wand, Voldemort aimed. “Avada Kedavra!”

A bolt of green shot from the tip of his yew wand. It hit the baby on the forehead, only to rebound with the sound of a cannon and a flash of light. Voldemort, before he could react, was hit by his own Killing Curse. There was pain, such pain, pain like he’d never felt. He was blown away, far away, less that a shadow, tethered to life only by the anchors he had set up to bind him to the mortal plane.

Little Harry Potter cried. He hurt. And Mum wasn’t moving. He cried himself to exhaustion, only to fall into a tired, dreamless sleep.

Over the next twenty-four hours, Harry was transported by flying motorcycle from Godric’s Hollow to Hogwarts, where he was fussed over by Madam Pomfrey, the school Mediwitch, and Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster. After being poked and prodded and deemed perfectly healthy apart from a lightning bolt scar on his forehead, he was transported again in the flying bike by a half-giant to Privet Drive, the street where his mother’s sister’s family lived.

Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, and Rubeus Hagrid bid farewell to the young orphan, already being revered as a hero by the gullible public. Then they made their departure, Albus and Minerva Apparating away while Hagrid went to return the motorbike, unaware that its owner was currently in a Ministry holding cell.

Quiet reigned in the midnight air of Privet Drive. Harry slept on, bundled in a warmed blanket inside a basket, a letter for his aunt tucked in next to him.

A shadow seemed to detach from the street, rising up and filling in form to create a suited gentleman. With the click of expensive shoes on pavement, he walked to the step of 4 Privet Drive and looked down at Harry Potter.

“Well, this won’t do. This won’t do at all.” The mysterious man plucked the letter from the basket and, irreverent of the fact it was addressed to another, cracked the seal and unfolded it. He read at a blistering speed, chuckling at the end. “Appeal to family with one hand, warn of shadowy threats with the other, all in a patronising politeness. Typical of Albus.”

The man dropped the letter, which caught fire and left not even ashes before it even touched the ground.

“So, Harry James Potter. It seems that our time together begins now.”

The man bent down and picked up the basket, baby and all. He walked away into the street, vanishing into the shadows between street lamps as if he never was. Harry Potter vanished with him.

 

Albus Dumbledore was not ashamed to admit that he had a bit of a panic over the next few days as all the instruments he had set to monitor the wards around 4 Privet Drive and Harry himself remained silent. He told himself not to worry, that he was imagining things, that these things take time to get going. But then the first report from Arabella Figg, a squip from the Order of the Phoenix he’d assigned to watch over Harry, arrived. There was no sign that Harry was in the house. She’d made subtle inquiries, wanting to ‘get to know the neighbors’, and was told in no uncertain terms that Petunia Dursley had never even seen her nephew and had no desire to ever.

Albus visited the family himself. Between Legilimency and strong words from an angry wizard, the Dursleys revealed that they’d never found a basket with their nephew in it. Their step had been clear when they opened it on the morning of November 2nd.

Albus was stumped, horrified, dismayed. What had happened? Had some random passerby seen the baby, just picked him up, and left? Why hadn’t he thought to ward the basket? Moving past his own self-recrimination, Albus summoned what remained of the Order of the Phoenix and informed them of the terrible news.

Most were shocked and alarmed. Some were disgusted at Albus and his lack of forethought. Minerva slapped him so hard you could see her handprint on his cheek.

They set out, searching high and low, but no sign turned up. No missing or abandoned children popped up over the next few weeks within fifty miles of Little Whinging. Spell after charm after ritual were attempted to track Harry down, all of which failed. Even owls and house elves didn’t work; a small army of both creatures were sent in search of Harry. The birds flew in circles before returning to the sender while the brownie-like beings failed again and again at attempting to track down their target.

A few years later, the key to Harry’s Gringotts vault was remotely destroyed, an action the Goblins would only do at the express command of the account holder. This proved that Harry was still alive, but left them all no closer to finding the boy. As the years passed, what little hope there was of finding a lead, ANY lead, dwindled to nothing.

In the end, Albus had one hope. The Address Quill. Imbued by the four founders of Hogwarts with ancient magic and tied to the very island of Albion, the Quill would never fail to address a letter to a magical child in the United Kingdom of Hogwarts age. It had never, in history, failed to address an envelope to a student. Assuming of course that the student in question was alive, of course.

So it was in on July 24th, 1991, Albus Dumbledore and his deputy, Minerva McGonagall, stood in the chamber just off the Headmaster’s quarters, watching the Address Quill write out lines on prepared envelopes of parchment. The Quill had just started on those students whose last names started with ‘P’. They watched with bated breath as it worked through the roll known only to it, until finally it came to the name they sought.

Harry James Potter

“Oh, Albus, it’s working! He is alive, after all!” Minerva exclaimed, her Scottish brogue coming out with her state of high emotion.

“Indeed, Minerva.”

It was with dread, however, that Dumbledore read the remainder of the address as it was written out.

Harry James Potter  
The Second Bedroom  
Master Suite, The Red Star  
666 Vertik Alley  
London

As with all the others, the enveloped was then magically stuffed with an acceptance letter and a list of school supplies for the appropriate year before sealing itself with wax and lying atop a pile to be collected and delivered to the Owlery. Dumbledore reached out and took the envelope.

“Vertik Alley? Why, he’s been right under our noses this whole time!” Minerva gaped.

“Yes, yes. Interesting,” Albus said faintly.

The Transfiguration Professor noticed how out of sorts her predecessor was. “What is it, Albus?”

“Minerva, my dear… you are aware, of course, that some creatures that call this world home are not only magical, but truly otherworldly. They originate from a realm as distinct from Earth as the Earth is from the moon. They are not human, though they often take our shape, and their motives and power are always uncertain.”

Minerva’s mouth thinned into her usual frown. “You’re speaking of demons, aren’t you?”

“Indeed, I am?”

“What does that have to do with Mr. Potter?”

Dumbledore drew in a deep breath. “The Red Star is notorious for being owned and operated solely by demons. I have personally met the owner once in my life, and the encounter terrified me to my very soul. If young Harry is to be found in his thrall, then I fear not just for the boy, but for us all.”

“What makes you think this owner has anything to do with the boy?”

“The letter is addressed to the Master Suite. The Second Bedroom, to be precise. If it was the owner that kidnapped the boy all those years ago, and he’s had him for all this time… I really don’t know what to expect.”

Minerva was quietly disconcerted to see her fearless leader so uncertain. Drawing on her Gryffindor courage, she reached out and took the letter from Albus. “Well, we won’t find out just standing here. Come along, Albus, we have a letter to deliver.”

The two left the Hogwarts grounds and the anti-Apparition wards that cloaked it. Then, with a deliberate spin, they both twisted through space to the Apparition point in Diagon Alley, the longest and busiest of the four Alleys that made up the magical shopping district of the UK. They walked to Gringotts, where three of the Alleys intersected. Orienting themselves, they walked down Vertik Alley, coming upon a black marble edifice that put Gringotts to shame in terms of grandeur. The numerals ‘666’ hung by the door, seeming to twinkle with a mocking light.

Bracing themselves, the two Professors entered.

The doors opened before them, and they found themselves in a lavish if tastefully understated lobby. They walked to the reception desk, Minerva unconsciously hanging closer and a bit behind Albus. The various patrons and staff all looked up from what they were doing to watch them with curious eyes.

Albus paused before an immaculately dressed clerk and cleared his throat. “Excuse me. We are here to deliver a message to a Mr. Harry Potter. I understand he is in the building.”

The clerk, an ivory-skinned woman with raven-black hair, smiled with teeth that were a little too sharp to be human. “Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. You just might be the most overqualified postman there’s ever been. You’ve come to bring Master Harry’s Hogwarts letter personally? Some would accuse you of favoritism. And you’ve brought Minerva McGonagall too. My, my, such consideration for the young master.”

Albus hid the flinch at the use of his full name. It was pronounced exactly how he would say it, every last syllable, every intonation, and the sound of it made him feel like someone had just walked over his grave. “We’re just here to deliver the letter to Mr. Potter.”

“We both know you’re here for far more than that.” She shrugged. “But whatever. The Master is expecting you. Just step into the elevator. It will know which floor.”

“Thank you,” Albus said, fingering the Elder Wand in its sheath. He never liked dealing with demons. However benign and genial they seemed at first, you could never forget that they were always working an angle, always trying to claim an advantage over you. A simple chat with your average demon was more dangerous than the typical wizarding duel. And the owner of the Red Star was far from an average demon.

The two educators walked to the elevator, which opened silently for them. They walked in, and felt the gentle sensation of moving upward while chamber music played from an invisible source. Dumbledore couldn’t help but hum along, which led McGonagall to roll her eyes. Albus was too much at times.

The elevator doors opened on what felt like the top floor, to reveal an antechamber. The walls to the left and right were covered by paintings. The painting on the left was of a grand castle that towered on a small island. The painting on the right depicted a very Christian vision of angels and demons at war.

Minerva looked from the bloodshed to the castle, noting the three interlocked rings of the standard that bedecked the castle. “Is that…”

“Camelot. Before it was lost to the sea,” Dumbledore said gravely.

With trepidation, Dumbledore walked up to the mahogany doors and used the gold knocker to announce their presence.

The man that opened the door was obviously in his mid to late twenties. He was also obviously Harry Potter. He looked exactly like Jame Potter did the day before his death, only with more strength to the jaw and a more regal bearing to his posture. But his eyes were most certainly Lily’s. They were big and green and deeper than the Black Lake, filled with wisdom and knowledge and, at the moment, a touch of mischief.

He was also breathtakingly handsome, unnaturally so. His skin glowed and appeared sinfully smooth. His features were symmetrical down to the micrometer. Clad in a tight t-shirt and even tighter jeans, it was impossible not to see that he was well fit, enough so to be a model. Just to look at him was to be drawn to his beauty.

Albus and MInerva gawked. “H-harry?” Albus stuttered out, unable to believe his eyes. It had to be Harry, it just had to. This was clearly the son of James and Lily Potter. But how? Harry was supposed to be 11, not even starting puberty. He definitely shouldn’t appear even older than his parents had been at the time of their deaths.

The gorgeous young man gave a dazzling smile. “Greetings, Professors. We’ve been waiting for you.” Even his voice was enticing, like caramel or dark chocolate.

He opened the door, revealing a living room that looked more suited for a palace than a hotel room. There was a chandelier for heaven’s sake! The boy, no, the man that had to be Harry Potter led an equally amazed and troubled Albus and Minerva to two couches. He directed them to sit on one and took his place on the other.

Seated next to him was a man that made possibly-Harry look like the ugly stepsister.

Beauty. Grace. Strength. Magnificence. All these and more were personified in the physical form of the man already sat next to Harry. To look at him was to fall in love or at least lust. To bear his gaze was to be electrified, stimulated, honored. This was, without a single doubt in the mind of the onlooker, the single most perfect being on the planet, on any planet.

He was also clad in nothing but a silk robe.

The demon grinned. “Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Minerva McGonagall. Welcome to my home. I am Asteroth.”

McGonagall found her mouth to be very dry. “Charmed,” she managed.

Dumbledore set his shoulders. “Hello again.”

“May I offer you some refreshment? Tea, coffee, something stronger perhaps?” Asteroth gave a wicked grin. “Rest assured, it’s free of charge. I am not completely devoid of courtesy.”

“Tea would be lovely,” Albus said genially. Minerva stopped herself just barely from asking for a dram of single-malt whiskey. She definitely was going to need some before the end of the day.

“Tea, it is. Harry, if you would do the honors.”

“Yes, Master.”

Harry snapped his fingers, and a tea set appeared on the table set between the couches. Minerva barely stopped herself from gawking while Dumbledore’s eyes flashed. Wandless, wordless non-spatial summoning? Even he’d be hard-pressed to recreate such a feat. Albus also didn’t miss the possessive way Asteroth said Harry’s name, and the respectful obedience in Harry’s voice when he answered. Things were not looking good.

The man confirmed to be Harry poured. Being an enchanted teapot, it produced the ideal tea for the intended recipient of each cup. Albus got Earl Grey with lemon. Minerva got English Breakfast strong enough to stand up a spoon in, cut with a dash of milk. Asteroth got a spice blend too strong for any human palette. Harry got mint tea with six spoons’ worth of sugar. Everyone took the necessary sips that social ritual demanded.

Asteroth finished his sip with a ‘tah’ and set the fine china teacup on its saucer. “Now… ask your first question. I can see you’re aching to.”

“What is Harry doing here?” Albus asked, not unkindly but with unmistakable steel.

Asteroth grinned like a tiger freshly sated on a gazelle. “That’s easy. I own him.”

“What?” Minerva shouted, slamming her cup down so fast she cracked the saucer. “Potter is a boy, not a piece of meat! Just because you kidnapped him doesn’t make him yours!”

Harry tilted his head. “Such fire on my behalf. I’d be touched if you hadn’t insulted my Master.”

Asteroth chuckled and ran a hand through Harry’s hair in a way that was a little too familiar. Albus and Minerva watched with mounting horror how Harry’s eyes fluttered and his whole body leaned into the touch. “Hush, my pet. It’s a simple misunderstanding.” Asteroth locked wine-red eyes on Minerva with all the authority of Fate itself. “Minerva McGonagall, I did not kidnap Harry James Potter. I took custody of my rightful ward, under your own laws.”

“How do you mean?” Dumbledore asked, trying to get to the bottom of this.

Asteroth sighed. “Come now, let’s not pretend to be idiots. You know what my kind are capable of.”

“Yes. And I know you are bound by magic tied to the very fabric of reality to not act without the consent of all parties involved.”

“So follow that to the logical conclusion. My kind make deals. I own Harry. How might that have happened? Give it a few seconds’ thought.”

Dumbledore realized soon enough. “No…” he breathed out.

“Oh, yes,” Asteroth said smugly.

“What? What is it, Albus?” Minerva asked.

Asteroth turned his attention to the Animagus. “Minerva McGonagall, you were familiar with Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, yes?”

Minerva blinked. “Yes, I was.”

“Did you never find it odd that after years of trying, and the failure of every fertility treatment known to wizardkind, that one day Euphemia suddenly fell pregnant?”

“That was just good luck.”

The demon laid a hand over his heart. “‘Good luck’. Well, I’ve been called worse.”

“You mean… No!” McGonagall exclaimed.

“Indeed. They came to me, looking to make a deal. Offered all the Potter Family gold if I would simply bless them with a child.”

Dumbledore eyed the extravagant surroundings that all but screamed wealth. “But you don’t deal in anything as common as money.”

“I should hope not. I have plenty of silver and gold. My rates are more… exotic.” Asteroth grinned. “I felt that I was quite reasonable in my negotiations. A life for a life, one child in exchange for another. I would facilitate the conception of the Potter Heir. In payment, I would have my pick of any children they produced. And when James Fleamont Potter perished on October 31, 1981, he had only sired one child. The terms of the contract fell, by default, to Harry James Potter. I can show you a copy of the paperwork if you like.”

Minerva was grey in the face. Dumbledore had a look of purest sadness and remorse behind his spectacles.

Harry chuckled as he took another sip of his tea. “You two look like you’ve been slapped with rotting fish. Really, it’s not a bad life. I quite enjoy being one of Master Asteroth’s possessions. It’s very fulfilling, in its own way.”

Asteroth beamed with pride. “You are too kind, Harry.”

“Albus, is there nothing we can do?” Minerva asked her companion with desperate denial.

“The law has always been, since the founding of the Ministry, that magically-binding contracts are to be honored. Fleamont and Euphemia were entirely in their rights to sign away their grandchild. Mr. Asteroth speaks true; he owns Harry as much as he owns this hotel.”

“More so, in fact. The papers giving me possession of this building are signed with ink. The Potter contract is signed in blood, willingly sacrificed. There’s not a court or magic in all this world that can break my claim.” Asteroth flashed a perfect smile. “Now, I believe you two originally came here to deliver a letter.”

The two returned to themselves. Reaching into her robes, Minerva took out the acceptance letter and held it out with shaking hands.

Calm as a cucumber despite the tension in half the inhabitants of the room, Harry broke the seal and read his letter. 

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

 

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,  
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.  
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

 

Deputy Headmistress

Harry nodded and placed the letter and enclosed list on the table. “Well, Master. Shall I attend?”

Asteroth made a show of thinking about it, tapping a manicured finger to a flawless chin. “I don’t see why not. The material will be below you, but you’ll have the chance to network with the future makers and shakers of the wizarding world.” Asteroth turned to Dumbledore. “He’ll be attending. I assume we can dispense with the formality of sending an official owl.”

“Of course,” Dumbledore said flatly, feeling dread deep in his heart at the thought of a demon-raised student in the hallowed halls of Hogwarts.

“What about his age? What the devil is the reason for that, anyway?” Minerva demanded.

“Time moves at different speeds in certain areas of the hotel,” Harry explained with an unperturbed smile. “I spent a number of subjective years training in the basement.”

Asteroth shrugged. “You can say he had an accident with an Ageing Potion. Or, we could just do this. Harry, act your calendar age.”

Fast as a trained dog, Harry’s appearance changed. It was like watching a timelapse film of his growth in reverse, as his features softened and became more androgynous, more childlike, until an 11-year-old Harry Potter was sitting on the couch before the stunned professors. His clothes had somehow shrunk with him.

“He’s a Metamorphmagus! How?” Minerva asked, while Albus fit the piece into the puzzle. No wonder his spies had never found Harry. He could change his looks at will!

“A simple enough ritual, though the key ingredient is blood of a Boggart. I’d be happy to give you the notes. For a price.” Asteroth smiled winningly.

Minerva pulled herself to her full height. The chance to become a Metamorphmagus, those prodigies of Transfiguration, was tempting. But she had no doubt that she’d lose more than she’d earn in any transaction with this… being. “No, thank you.”

“Your loss. Now, you’ve ascertained that Harry is alive and well, and you’ve delivered his letter. I believe your time here has come to an end, unless you intend to let a room.” It was a clear dismissal.

Albus stood up, his eyes lingering on the ethereal, cherubic face of the de-aged Harry Potter. He had failed this boy. No matter that the circumstances of his imprisonment were beyond his control. Albus considered himself responsible for every student to enter his castle. To know that Harry had lived his entire life in service to this demon, doing who knows what and brainwashed into believing it was what he wanted, made it feel like there were rocks in his heart.

“Come, Minerva. I fancy a drink at the Leaky.”

“Right behind you,” she muttered under her breath.

As Dumbledore walked out, he couldn’t help but look back. What he saw sent a shock through his body and, ashamedly, to his groin.

Asteroth had pulled aside his robes. His body made Michelangelo’s David seem poorly carved. Harry, still looking like a child, had his mouth wrapped around the demon’s obscenely large manhood.

Albus jerked his eyes away and slammed the door behind him. Heaven help them all when Harry Potter came to Hogwarts.


End file.
